


Butts and Beatles: What the Ciggie Carton Saw

by waveofahand



Series: 30 Second Fanfics [15]
Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 30 Second Fanfic, Cigarettes as People, Ciggie Abuse, George is hungry, I don't know why I have done this, John is angry, M/M, Paul is a slut, Ringo is chill, Smoking, These idiot boys may have finally driven me over the edge and into madness, They all like butts, What the Marlboro Carton Saw, Yes I am ashamed, cigarettes are bad for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 09:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveofahand/pseuds/waveofahand
Summary: The Beatles always had cartons of cigarettes all around them. One carton full speaks up about what went on between Beatles and his ciggie friends, and how they were treated. Badly. They were treated badly. Especially by one of the Beatles.





	Butts and Beatles: What the Ciggie Carton Saw

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so... Storytelling from the perspective of a carton of cigarettes, circa 1965, when the Surgeon General had not yet made much noise about them. What was it like to be a cigarette in the mouth of a Beatle. Sorry. I don't know why. I had to write it. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction. I do not own the Beatles or cigarettes. As far as I know, nothing in this story ever happened or was even thought of. Ever.
> 
> 30 Second Fanfics are quick McLennon pieces all based on photos found around the internet, so pictures are necessary and really add to the story. The whole series is dedicated to @Lynzee005, who has been an inspiration for my writing and so wonderfully encouraging!

_Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang bang…_

The first thing I noticed was that the one with the black hair was insane. He pulled Pack #1 out of me and began banging it against his hand. _Bang bang bang bang bang bang bang.._.

Thirty times.

He did it thirty times.

The one with the blue eyes rolled them and said, “You know it doesn’t do what you think it does, right?”

“Sure it does,” Blackhair said. “Tap ‘em before you open ‘em and the tobacco packs tighter, and the fag burns slower.”

“I’ll burn you slower,” Blueyes snorted.

“You’d love to try.” Blackhair would flutter back at him.

“Don’t waste those eyelashes on me, son,” Blueyes would threaten, just like a man from Dingle.

And this is how it went, with Blackhair. Every pack he took from me was abused in the same way, _bang bang bang bang bang…_ always thirty times. Not twenty-nine, not thirty-one. Thirty. _Insane_.

They smoked like mad, all of them, so I never expected to be around for long. Still, it was an entertaining time while it lasted, because these were four men who liked their flavorful butts. If there were butts to be had, they wanted their mouths on the butts, the butts in their mouths.

Blueyes simply smoked, like a man who took pleasure in his addiction. He would read comic books or listen to Jazz and just light up, enjoy, tamp out. Very rational, very regular sort. Probably treated everyone in a mellow sort of way.

Then there was a lanky fellow who was always hungry. He smoked the least, probably because he spent so much time eating and playing his guitar, both of which activities precluded full-on engagement with a ciggie. He wasn’t popular with the fags, who never liked being anyone’s second-best.

The blind one _manhandled_ a cigarette more than he actually puffed on it. Oh, yes, he would smoke, and sometimes with real enjoyment, but usually he engaged with his cigarettes like a man at war with them, and with the whole world. When he was angry – and he was angry at some point nearly every day – then he would throw fags at people, even if they were lit. Or he’d slam a ciggie under his feet, or tamp one out with such ferocious energy it would break in half and shred. His ashtray looked like a dread battlefield full of tiny white, filter-tipped bodies, brown guts all astrew amid the grey ash.

Poor broken ones, so violently misused.

But Blackhair, he smoked the most, and he took on every cigarette as though it was people – all sorts of people – and his mood determined how they were going to be treated. And he was flamboyant about it. 

I mean, if he was feeling distracted, he might tease the fag for a while, just putting it between his lips and moving it around and up and down, and rolling his tongue around it, but only lighting it when the poor thing was going to collapse from a combination of moisture and the need – the desire to be set aflame, for the one-on-one encounter to be consummated, already. Sometimes, especially if he was at a piano, he’d just never get around to it, or if he was anxious he would choose instead to put anywhere from one-to-three fingers in his mouth and begin to chew on himself (insane, remember…) and then the ciggie would be put down – abandoned at the very edge, awash in the very midst of the anticipation Blackhair had teased out of it. If a cigarette could pant, the ciggie would have lain there, breathing hard, feeling cast-aside and forgotten, unfulfilled desire running all through it. So randy as to be anyone’s for the taking.

Usually Blindguy would stumble upon it and finally pick it up, and have his way with it, greedily striking a match before he’d even brought it to his lips. And, then there would be a shout: “Macca! You left this fag all wet and saturated, and now it’s filthy in my mouth.”

“Exactly how and where you want it, love,” Blackhair would flirt.

Because yes, Blackhair was not only insane, he was a slut who flirted with everyone, all the time. Flirted with the ciggie-people, flirted with all the actual people – whoever happened to be around. Usually when Blindguy screamed “Macca,” it meant the ciggie would end up tossed away half used, because they’d start arguing and then using their mouths for other things.

Someone should have told Blackhair that that was no way to treat a person, even if it’s a ciggie person. No one wants to just be licked but left unlit. No one wants to be left around for someone else to pick up and then forget about when mouths got busy with other mouths.

But sometimes, you know, Blackhair was the greatest smoker in the universe and ciggies would tremble in anticipation of meeting up with his lips, and there were two ways that could happen.

First, if he was mentally engaged. Ciggies loved Blackhair when he was having an interesting discussion, because they he would treat the fag with respect, like the literal exclamation point to his musings, quickly puffed and flicked while he blew off a tight cloud of smoke. He would draw it, like an equal partner, into the mix..

Or, if he was reading, the ciggie felt like a darling one invited to linger under his hand and enjoy a little distracted touch, a small kiss of an inhale, the smoke was released in a long sigh, rising straight up, like a good thought well-taken, or a sweetheart, cuddled.

Blackhair could be nice like that, sometimes.

And then there were the other times when, well... sometimes, he was seductive, and we were like his prey. I mean, Blackhair could be almost lascivious with a ciggie. If he was feeling it, he would romance one as though he were Don Giovanni and the ciggie was Zerlina, and there was no way she wasn’t going to surrender to him and totally give in. He’d slip the stick into his mouth, and light it up, and then draw and draw from the ciggie, taking it in with a strong thrust of an inhale, deep down into his lungs, only moving it from his lips to let the smoke trail away from his open mouth, and sometimes from his nostrils, escaping slowly -- only as he permitted -- until there was a heavy cloud all around his face, and he would stare through the smoke with his eyes lidded, and it would curl all around and linger like a sleeping kitten, and there would be this mood, as though he was burning as much as the cigarette he would so draw so deeply into himself again and again, until there was nothing left, barely a nub above the filter. A consummation and then some.

Oh, the happy ciggies who encountered Blackhair when he was feeling like a human sex den! They knew they were his and his alone, for a while, anyway, until he once more forgot all about them and moved on like the slut he was, later lighting up not one but two cigarettes at once -- a model of efficiency -- and then handing one off to whoever else was there with him, usually naked under sheets. The two of them would barely notice or appreciate their new ciggie friends at all, except as ambient props for their afterglow.

Nobody appreciates being used as a prop for someone else's afterglow, either. These men were selfish, inconsiderate men. Especially Blackhair, who used and ignored, lured and snubbed, seduced and moved on from all of them -- all of us -- constantly, day in, day out. Bastard should never have been given matches. 

I watched as they were pulled from me, one pack after another, in the course of just a few days. Treated like casual friends by Blueyes, a meal replacement by Hungryguy, a stabbing weapon of furious vengeance by Blindguy, and various sluts, prostitutes, reading partners, and seducible innocents by Blackhair. 

The Surgeon General warns that smoking cigarettes can cause grave illness. And it’s true, we can kill you. But no one ever killed us like those four restless, fascinating men. Most especially Blackhair. Ciggie cartons still whisper among themselves of his legendary prowess, the whole complex and romantic love-hate relationship between us and him, and feel the fags within shiver as they imagine how it might have been for them, if only he’d kept at it.

The dream is over.


End file.
